by cheri sabraw
After killing a rattlesnake outside my garage today, I am grateful for my fully-functioning nervous system, complete with flight of fight response, pounding heart rate, and acute survival instinct.
I’m not low energy—that’s for sure. I’m sure that in my former life in a cold cave, I trapped wild game animals, killed them, grilled them, and then slept like a dead one.
I will admit today to over-exertion and some minor panic when I drove into my garage, stepped out of my car with flip-flops on my tiny feet, only to hear hissing and pissing coming from a corner by the generator.
Not a juvenile. Not a five-foot snake. Probably a saucy teenager, who became quite bothered, as he wrapped his 2-foot body into a coil and told me to get the hell out of my garage.
I called my husband who was in a hearing.
I called my son who was at work.
I even called Glenn, my friend and the caretaker up the road, who informed me he was in San Diego.
It was up to me.
After sitting in my car for over twenty minutes, I watched the snake leave the garage and round the corner outside.
My husband called.
“Do not let that snake get away,” he said, “ Go get your shotgun and kill it.”
“I’ve forgotten how to load my shotgun, your honor,” I peeped.
I called my son at work.
“Mom, throw a brick at it and call me when the deed is done, “ he suggested.
I heaved four boulders on the hissing snake. All they did was provide a cavern in which he could hide.
I dumped several cups of ammonia on said snake.
He lifted up his diamond-shaped head and I whacked it off with a shovel.
I’m spent and having a glass of buttery Chardonnay.
So much for blog posts about Palo Verde trees and quail.
My workouts are paying off. I am strong.
I have a picture of the dead snake but I will spare you all.